Yo-Yo Boing!

— Te lo juro. That’s what Leni Riefenstahl thought when Fraus chopped her first film into one hundred pieces. She threw a catfit because he ruined it. But when she calmed down, she analyzed his editing. Leni had five doors, one door closing after another until they were all closed. It lacked simultaneity and surprise. What Fraus did was this. The first door starts closing to a certain point, then the next door takes over the action, closing a lil’ more, and the third takes over where the second left off, and the fourth where the third left off, and the fifth completes the action, the shot and the scene. Five doors become one big slam, continuity without repetition. Even though Fraus had the wrong pace, he had the right idea. He knew just what she needed to do. Look at this scheme:

Woman beats dog

Dog nips woman

Woman plays dead

Dog barks help

Neighbor kills dog

— You mean Pinola.

— I don’t mean, no, I don’t mean. Whomever. Many neighbors, many masters. Who cares if it’s Costi with a rifle or Pinola with a pistol. The neighbors see the woman dead and kill the dog.

— What does she do next?

— Jumps up and down shrieking: Murderer! You killed my poor little dog! Who’s the ultimate victim?

— The neighbor.

— The dog, the dog — died a martyr to save his mistress even though she beat him.

— The woman, now she misses her dog even though he bit her. And when the neighbors see her, she is bleeding on the floor. And what do you see?

— I see, I see, a beaten woman — lost and found, yelling — because her dog is dead. She is beaten by the dog and the neighbor. Who do you think should play her role.

— Me, of course, she is me. You, of course, the beaten dog.

— I haven’t even started to nip at you.

— Can you imagine when the neighbors come.

— Were you the ones arguing last night?

— No, why?

— It must have been the other neighbors. With these cardboard walls, I can’t tell if the hullabaloo comes from your flat or the west side.

He is very violent, isn’t he?

— Who?

— Who else?

— Well.

— It must be trying on your nerves.

— I can’t wait to see you hit the floor. Make it real. Drop. Drop. Dead.

— And then you, poor fool, believing, barking: Auuuu! Auuuu!

— Who is it?

— Pinola’s at the door.

— Watch out. It might be Costi with a rifle. Shut up and you won’t get shot. This is a wonderful plot. I love it.

— And then you’ll scream:

— You killed my poor little dog!

— And what if I kill him out of revenge.

— Then you’re not a victim. You’ll go to jail.

— I’ll bring charges against him for breaking and entering, let alone the use of a deadly weapon on a helpless pet.

— Lo hizo por defenderte.

— Me defendió matando lo único que quiero.

— You love me.

— Yes, I do. But kill him before he starts barking again at me: Auuuu! Auuuu! So much time wasted on your tongue. You think I hear what that mouth is sputtering. Not a voice, not a sound. Static. The lips flapping with spit bubbles popping on the tip of the tongue, repeating:

— Pipa, you are doing fine. I’m convinced, this is the road.

King of the road, you say you’ll rent a mobile home to cross the desert. Why the hell don’t you do it. Leave me alone. Your tongue’s vibration in your mouth, in my ears. A month goes by. A lot of kikiriquis, a lot of movies but no move-outs. Nope: movies, kikirikis, muñequitos.

— Don’t worry—you say, the time will come. You’re too excited, too impatient.

You talk so much. You talk so, so much:

— Did you read about Pee Wee Herman in The Post? Arrested during a porn flick with his pants down. Had his pee wee in his hands. Nabokov was probably the same. They say Joyce raped his daughter, that’s why she was schizophrenic. Ah, Pee Wee, who would pick a name like that anyway, like pee-pee, I want to pee, and to think his show was canceled just because his little pee wee went weee-weee in his pants.